


A Night in Sin City

by orphan_account, waywardsherlockedgirlwrites (UpsettinglyWholockian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/UpsettinglyWholockian/pseuds/waywardsherlockedgirlwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know,” Dean said slowly, cautiously, “you could come with me tonight.  I’ll show you the city; I got an arrangement for a game tonight.  I could go at it alone, like I always do, but…” he hesitated, blinked once, and finished his sentence, “I’d rather have you.”</p><p>Cas took one look down at his brand new phone, raised his arm, and threw it without abandon into the Bellagio fountains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Castiel

_Breathe in._

Sweat.  Stale peanuts, watered-down coke and a few weak cocktails. Dust, recycled air, musky cigarettes.  Perfume, a whiff of strong cologne.  Deodorant.  Underneath everything, dirt, grime, sweat.

_Breathe out._

The roar of the engines over the calm of lungs, a dull pressure on the ears, only worse with descent.  A baby sobbing. Heavy breathing.  Pages turning, fingers typing fast and furious on noisy keyboards.  Siblings bickering over a game, cards shuffled, tinny notes from earbuds three seats over. 

_Breathe in._

Itchy eyes from the air, a distinct cramp in the right calf muscle.  Roll the foot – no better, but crack goes the joint, sounds like a firework.  Roll the neck, flex the fingers, careful not to touch the hairy arm on the arm rest.  Eyes closed, head leaning on the window, cold as ice, crystals surely formed on the outside.  Air conditioning too strong, too cold, reach up to turn it off, don’t open eyes, don’t look at anyone.  Lean back against the window.

_Breathe out._

A man in row 12, seat C opened his eyes. 

His forehead pressed against the tiny window at his side, he craned his head and strained his eyes to get a glimpse of the terrain below.

Really, he needn’t have bothered.  It was brown: flat and brown for as far as he could see, with shallow, desert mountains away in the distance.  A golf course wound its way underneath the plane, the green of the grass standing out starkly against the dirt and the sand of the desert, unnatural.

Buildings dotted the fairways of the golf course, and suburbs flowered outwards from there, becoming increasingly populated.  He knew there was not too far to go, anytime the stewardess would announce –

“We are now beginning our descent into McCarran International Airport,” a woman’s voice said over the intercom.  “We ask you to please stow your tray tables and move your seats into the upright position.  Please store all personal belongings under the seat in front of you.  The local time is 2:34 P.M., and the temperature is 94 degrees.  On behalf of your Captain and Crew, we wanted to thank you for flying Southwest and hope you will choose us again for your future travels.  Welcome to Las Vegas, and if you are continuing on to another destination today, have a safe flight.”

The man settled in for the landing.  He could make out the strip – the heart of gambling in Vegas, thriving with crime and lies and _life_.  It was the center of a web of sin, in the city of sin, and it was exactly where he was headed. 

Twenty minutes later, the wheels of the plane touched down with a jarring thud on the tarmac at McCarran.  The man gathered up his belongings and turned his phone back on with difficulty.  He still hadn’t managed to grasp all of the nuances of new technology, and remained obstinately confused when it came to such matters.  There was only one text, from the friend who he was here to see.  The Vegas bachelor party was an overused idea, but Chris had wanted it, and so he agreed to the trip to the well-known desert oasis.    

While the man would not prove an integral part in the wedding proceedings, he was Chris’s oldest childhood friend, and had thus been invited as a courtesy.  He was positively dreading the party, however, and hoped sincerely he could be to bed by a reasonable hour – but this was Vegas, and the nights were never quiet. 

The man collected his small overnight bag from the overhead compartment and shuffled along in the queue to leave the plane.  As he stepped into the walkway that led back to the main terminal, he felt heat swell to meet him before the air conditioning rapidly took over once again.  He readjusted his coat and tie, and continued on, refusing to remove any layers. 

After a brief stop in the bathroom, he exited the airport in an attempt to find a cab.  Ignoring the heat, he crossed quickly to the curb and flagged down a taxi.

“Bellagio, please,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in the backseat. 

“Sure thing,” the cabbie said.  He was young, and handsome, wasting his life away driving cabs along the strip.  The man felt a stab of pity for him. 

“Business or pleasure?” the cabbie asked, glancing at the man’s tie. 

“Both,” he replied.  “A friend’s bachelor party.”

“Ah, yeah.  First time in Vegas?” the younger man asked him.

“Yes, is it that obvious?”

“When you’ve been doing this for a few years, you can always spot the new ones,” he said, still working the cab through the lines of stalled cars alongside the curb at the airport.  They finally emerged from the mess that was McCarran, and the cabbie turned their course towards Vegas proper; they would loop back around towards the strip. 

“Any tips?” the man asked, fingers drumming nervously on the seat. 

“Watch your drink.  Quit when you’re ahead.  If you’re with a bachelor party, don’t wander off.  Shit can get bad pretty quick here.”

The man nodded.  He knew how bad things could get in Vegas.  He’d seen CSI, after all.  And The Hangover.

“It’s not glamorous, you know,” the driver said quietly.  “It’s dark, it’s dirty, and it’s cruel.  People come to see the shows, to play in the casinos, stay in a nice hotel.  They don’t see the other side of Vegas.  And damn, man, I hope you don’t have to, either.”

Casinos flashed past the window, massive hotels with thousands of rooms, advertisements for shows, tourists crowding the sidewalks in front of the Bellagio’s massive fountains – and then they were out front, pulling in to the drive, and a doorman was opening the door of the taxi. 

“Thank you,” the man said, paying the fare quickly. 

“Enjoy it, man,” he responded.  “But remember – what happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay here.”

He nodded curtly and drew his coat to him defensively as he clambered out of the cab and rushed through the heat and haze into the lobby of the hotel. 

The décor was so excessive he felt like throwing up.  An complex, beautiful blown glass sculpture covered a central part of the ceiling, multicolored light shining onto the marble surface below.  The rest of the ceiling was intricate, paneled in large squares of cream and gold.  A tapestry covered the floor below the blown glass sculpture, and couples were taking pictures in the center of it.  The man crossed the lobby hurriedly to the counter to check in. 

“Good afternoon, sir!” the woman behind the desk said, her smile stretching from ear to ear.  Interestingly, the smile looked genuine.  “Name on the reservation?”

“It should be under Novak.  Castiel Novak,” he responded, straightening his tie again. 

“Okay, I have you here for one night in the Cypress suite, does that sound correct?”

Castiel nodded.  He almost couldn’t believe he was spending over six hundred dollars on a hotel room for one night, but it _was_ Vegas, and he had booked the suite with the intention of doing the thing properly.  The woman finished checking him in, handed him his room key, and then offered to get someone to take his luggage to his room.

He insisted on taking his one small bag up by himself; no use wasting the time of another employee.  The elevator ride was mercifully short, and he walked into his suite with some trepidation. 

It was _beautiful_.  The furniture was all muted shades of gray and blue and brown, modern and sleek.  There were bathrooms to both his left and his right, but he walked around the partial divider that lay just past the living room to see the bedroom. 

What he saw nearly stopped him breathing.  The room looked right out over the strip, the windows curving to the contour of the building.  The Eiffel tower, built to smaller scale, stood directly across the boulevard from him, marking the Paris Las Vegas Hotel and Casino.  Caesar’s Palace, the Venetian, and the Mirage, he knew, were to his left; the Luxor was off in the distance to the right.  Even at three in the afternoon, the city was thrumming with life, as hordes of tourists crowded in front of the fountains at the Bellagio for photos. 

Suddenly exhausted, Castiel laid down on his bed.  It was so comfortable he felt himself drifting right off to sleep; he set the alarm so that it would wake him up in an hour.  That would be more than enough time to meet up with Chris and the boys, to get going on their night out in Vegas. 


	2. The Petrossian

_Breathe in._

Sweat.  Appetizers, five-star calamari, dirty martinis with extra olives.  Stale air, breathed in by too many, the stench of cigars lingering.  Cologne to mask it, a whiff of perfume.  Underneath everything, grime, booze, sweat.

_Breathe out._

The babble of voices over the calm of lungs, a dull pressure on the ears, growing with the setting sun.  A woman laughing.  Heavy breathing.  Phones ringing, buzzing, fingers clicking away on keyboards.  A couple fighting over a split, music pouring in from hidden speakers. 

_Breathe in._

The cool of the chips, sliding in between the fingers.  The slick of the cards beneath the right hand.  A slight cramp in his neck – crack it, no better, the pain is still there.  Eyes closed, gather complexion, cold as ice and equally unreadable.  Don’t give it away, don’t open that window.  Call the bluff.

_Breathe out._

A man at a poker table opened his eyes. 

The river was dealt.  He glanced down at the cards in his hand – queen-high flush.  Not fabulous.  Not the worst.  He glanced across at his opponent, staring intently at his face for a tell.

The man was looking down at his cards, his expression carefully blank.  His hair was black, and graying around the temples.  He had a carefully trimmed beard, and his cheeks were hollowed, wrinkles deep-set in an old face, aged prematurely from smoking. 

He blinked, twice, in quick succession.  

There – that was it, the younger man decided, his green eyes flashing back down to his own cards.  His opponent had nothing; he probably had a two pair and was growing nervous.  The older man’s eyes flicked up to the coins that lay heaped in stacks upon the tabletop.  

_This was too easy._

“Five thousand,” the young man said softly, nudging forward a small stack of chips.  The dealer pushed them in towards the center of the table.

A small bead of sweat trickled down the man’s face.  He was a newcomer to the strip; the younger man hadn’t seen him at this particular poker room before, meaning he wasn’t yet renowned for his playing.  For a man to have such an obvious tell – it was like taking money from a child.   

The older man set his cards down carefully, gently pushing them towards the center of the table.  Fold.

The man with the green eyes stood and leaned across to shake his opponent’s hand.  The man turned away and departed with the few chips he had left.

“Feel free to head over to the cashier, Mr. Smith,” the dealer said, sorting the chips in the pot.  “They’ll take care of you.”

“Thanks, Brandon,” the man replied, handing the dealer a crisp hundred.  Brandon nodded and smiled; the two had known each other for a long while now.

The young man walked away cautiously, heading towards the counter to cash in his chips.  The casino was busy, but not as busy as it would be in a few hours – when people milled about, enraptured by the slot machines, the elaborate light fixtures, the richly-patterned carpet.  They would be drunk, vulnerable, easy to manipulate, easy to beat.  It was times like those that an experienced gambler such as himself could make a living – cocky men eager to earn a couple grand were so simple.  The slot machines waved back at him solemnly, as if they knew what was coming – a deluge of tourists, of idiots. 

“Dean,” the woman behind the counter said with a smile as he waited for his money. 

“Bridgette,” he replied, grinning, eyes sliding over the delicate features of her face, the way her long blond hair flowed down in waves over her shoulders, her too-low neckline. 

He didn’t have long to admire the view, however.  He’d received his winnings and was wandering off before he’d even planned out the third position he would have her in. 

Damn, did he need a drink.

The Petrossian was nearby and open, so despite its classical piano music, Dean headed over to grab a whiskey and relax before hitting the floor again.  He sat himself down at the bar, grimacing a bit at the ridiculous European-styled surroundings, and ordered a glass of their finest. 

A coat rustled to his right; a man sat down just a few seats away. 

His hair was untidy, and if it hadn’t been nigh on 5:00, Dean would have assumed that he’d just rolled out of bed.  There was a fair amount of stubble on his tan cheeks, and his face was worn with worry and exhaustion.  He was wearing a long beige trench coat, a painfully simplistic suit, and a tie that was knotted incorrectly.  Dean’s eyes raked over the man’s slender body – runner, probably – and noticed that he wore no ring on his left hand.  Not married.  He was staring with evident confusion at his phone, and set it down on the bar with a sigh of frustration.

The bartender set a glass down on the counter next to Dean’s hand. 

“Make that two,” Dean said before the man in the beige trench coat had a chance to speak.

It was funny, how fast his head whipped around, almost as if he hadn’t noticed Dean there at all. 

“You look lost,” Dean said, taking a sip of his whiskey.  It was delicious – strong, but gliding like silk over his tongue and down his throat. 

“Uh,” the man said, clearly at a loss for words.

First time in Vegas.

Dean got up and moved the two necessary seats so he would be directly next to the good-looking stranger. 

“Dean Smith,” he said, holding out his hand.  The man shook it, almost dazed. 

“Cas Novak,” he said, staring at Dean with a strange sort of intensity.  Dean held Cas’ gaze, but the man turned away abruptly as the bartender set a drink down next to him.

“Thank you,” he said, picking up the glass and taking a rather large swig. 

Dean watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed.  It was terrifically attractive.  He hadn’t gone for a guy in years, since his teens, but this one –

“Yes,” Cas said abruptly, interrupting Dean’s train of thought.  Dean started.

“Yes what?”

“Well, I mean, I’m a little lost,” he said, glancing up at Dean and holding his gaze again.  “It’s my friends-“

“Wait, no,” Dean interrupted.  “Let me guess – bachelor party?  Overslept?  Have no idea where they are or when you’re supposed to meet up?”

“Yeah,” Cas replied, looking sadly down at his phone.  “I don’t know what we were supposed to be doing tonight and nobody is answering their phone.”  He glanced up rather sheepishly.  “To be perfectly honest, I’m not really sure how to work this thing yet.” 

“Did you even want to come?” Dean asked, laughing at the expression of devastation on the man’s face.

“Not particularly,” Cas said.  “What is this?” he asked, holding up his drink, and looking at it almost suspiciously. 

“No idea,” Dean said, swirling the brown liquid in his own glass.  “The best whiskey they got.”

“So what are you doing in Vegas?” Cas asked, apparently satisfied that Dean hadn’t done something to his drink.

“Working.”

“What kind of job brings a man to the strip?” he said, clearly intrigued. 

“I gamble,” Dean said, draining his glass.  The liquid burned as it settled into his stomach, and he relished the sensation. 

“Oh,” Cas said simply, softly, like he was surprised but knew that he shouldn’t be.

Dean ignored it. 

“So, your friends have abandoned you, and you just got in from the airport a few hours ago.  Lucky for you, I’ve been playing the poker rooms for a couple hours.  How ‘bout a bite?” he asked, smoothly as he could while those eyes were staring at him. 

Cas glanced down at his phone again, then back up at Dean.  Dean saw the other man’s carefully composed mask crumple in on itself when their eyes met, and he felt blood rush south, leaving his head light and his cock straining against his pants.  He shifted in a way he hoped was subtle, trying to cover up the sudden erection. 

“Yes, Dean,” Cas said.  “I think I’d like that very much.”


	3. Suits

Cas wasn’t exactly sure what he’d agreed to.  He was seated at a nice table, complete with candle, at a fancy bar in the middle of the Bellagio hotel and casino.  There was caviar and salmon in the center of a crisp linen tablecloth, and he was eating in a stunned bewilderment.  The food was amazing, of course; would he be expected to pay for some of it?  Was that a third glass of whiskey the server was handing him?  He had lost track; Dean kept buying him more.

And Dean – Cas would be damned if that man did not have the most stunning eyes, the most gorgeous smile.  He couldn’t help but to notice how Dean’s eyes crinkled up when he grinned, how it distorted the freckles that dotted his cheeks and nose.  His shoulders were broad, his hair short, brown, spiked slightly at the front.  Cas could only imagine what laid beneath that perfectly tailored suit –

No.  He shut the thought down with force, burying it in the back of his mind so deep that it wouldn’t ever again be uncovered.  Dean was a stranger, they were in Vegas; he was tipsy and feeling stupid.

“So, Cas,” Dean said, taking a bite of caviar.  It was absurd how attractive the man was, even eating something so stupidly expensive and unappealing as caviar.  “What’s that a nickname for?”

“Castiel,” he said, and he could feel his cheeks flushing.  Silly, outdated name, he’d hated his parents for it and had always insisted that his friends call him Cas.

Dean snorted.  “Nice name, Castiel.”

“Well, then, what does Smith stand for?” Cas retaliated, draining half his new glass of whiskey.  “That can’t be your real last name.”

“You’re right,” Dean said, swirling his drink and leaning back in his chair.  “My real name’s Winchester.  I don’t go by it though, security reasons.”

“Family?” Cas asked.  He shouldn’t have been surprised to think that Dean might have family, but he couldn’t picture the man settling down.

“A brother,” Dean said, nodding.  “Sam.  He’s in college, you know, going to Stanford.  He wants to be a lawyer.  I help put him through school, with poker.”

“Oh,” Cas breathed.  It was exceptionally sweet, that.  He wondered if Sam looked anything like his older brother – gorgeous, battle-weary, and so impossibly _free_ –

“God, you know, I keep trying this stuff, thinking one day I’ll learn to appreciate it,” Dean said, shoving his plate away from himself.  “As much as I eat it, I just can’t get used to the taste – guess I ate too many burgers as a kid.”

Cas laughed; he liked caviar, but then again, he liked most foods.  “Yeah, I guess it’s an acquired taste,” he said, pushing his plate towards the center of the table as well. 

“Anyways,” Dean said, finishing off the last of his drink, “your friends called you back yet?”

Cas unlocked his phone, but there were no missed calls, no texts.   “No.”

“Well, you can’t go wandering around Vegas looking like that,” Dean said, gesturing towards Cas’ outfit.  Cas glanced down; exactly what was wrong with a suit and a trench coat he did not know. 

“What do you –“

“Cas, buddy, look at you!” Dean said, laughing.  “Come on, we’re gonna go get you a decent suit.  I’m not sure what you were thinking when you picked that one out.  And damn it, we need to get you a new coat,” he added, eyeing Cas’ beige trench coat.  “That one looks pretty beat up.”

“Dean, honestly, that’s not –“

“Don’t you dare say it’s not necessary, if you’re going to be in Vegas, you may as well look the part,” Dean said, flagging down the waiter and handing him a credit card.  Cas opened his mouth to offer to pay for part of the bill, but Dean wasn’t having it, and signed off on the check as soon as it was brought back.  Cas thought he saw the man slipping their waiter a rather large tip, but he held his tongue. 

“Come on, man,” Dean said, getting up from the table and waiting for Cas to come around to the other side.  Cas walked around and felt Dean’s hand brush against the small of his back, so lightly he might have thought he was imagining it, had he not been looking for it.  Suddenly, it became a lot harder to breathe, and he felt heat rushing in waves through his blood, making him lightheaded.  Dean followed him closely out of the bar, and then they were back in the main lobby area, and Dean led Cas in another direction, towards the shops. 

Cas was perfectly aware of how expensive the stores in the Bellagio were; they were all designer, and he suddenly felt a hot flush creep up the back of his neck.  Was Dean expecting him to pay for a suit?  He couldn’t afford a new one.  Even worse was the thought that, perhaps, Dean was intending to pay for his clothes as well – Cas wasn’t sure he could pass off a designer suit as merely friendly concern.

Dean led him into a shop that smelled of new leather and starched clothing.  A woman immediately began to help him; Dean made a few suggestions, such as what color the suit should be, how many buttons it should have, what tie would go best, what shoes to match with the belt. 

Roughly an hour later, after trying on probably eight different suits with varying levels of success, Cas emerged from the fitting area sporting a beautiful black suit.  The fabric simply _felt_ expensive, he thought as he smoothed out the sleeves and tucked his hands into his pockets.  His shoes were black, muted, the leather shiny and yet subtle, very clearly expensive.  Dean studied him with an appraising eye and nodded, apparently with approval. 

Dean picked up a black tie that had been sitting next to him on a small table and crossed over to Cas.  Slowly, and with care, he slung the tie around Cas’ neck and knotted it in a half-Windsor.  It was a more elaborate knot than Cas was familiar with, seeing as he had trouble tying it in a four-hand most of the time.  Dean’s fingers adjusted the placement of the knot, sliding it up to rest right next to Cas’ throat.  His fingers lingered there a half second too long, and Cas felt lightheaded at the action. 

Dean stepped away and the woman handed Cas a black coat.  This one was the same length as his beige trench coat, but the material and stitching betrayed its price.  Dean took the coat and helped him into it, fixing the collar with care.  Cas felt his stomach doing small backflips again; he could feel Dean’s breath on his neck, but he still wasn’t sure whether it meant anything. 

“There you go,” Dean said, stepping in front of Cas and smoothing down his own suit.  “You look perfect.”  He turned to the assistant, “We’ll take all of this,” he said, gesturing towards the ensemble that Cas was wearing.  Dean already had his wallet out as the woman led them over to the counter, and he handed over another shiny credit card before Cas even had the chance to offer to pay. 

They walked out of the store five minutes later, and Cas figured Dean’s wallet was probably several thousand dollars lighter than it had been before they entered. 

“Come on,” Dean said.  “I want to show you something.”

The man led him back through the lobby, outside into the sweltering heat.  They walked down the long drive to the Bellagio and out onto the street.  The sun was pounding down on Cas’ new trench coat, which now felt uncomfortably warm after the air conditioning of the resort and casino.  The sun was descending, however, and it would be mere hours before the city was thrown into darkness.

They paused in front of the fountains, leaning against the railing, people rushing by to either side, traffic along the boulevard behind them.  The fountains danced in front of them; a Vegas show within itself, they leapt with perfect timing, landing with a flourish back in their pool.  Cas looked on in a state of mild wonder; he imagined they would be quite beautiful at night.

“This city’s pretty amazing,” Dean said, running his hand through his close-cropped hair.  “It’s like, as soon as that sun goes down behind the hills,” he made a motion with one hand, like a bullet being ejected from a gun, “the city comes to life.  It’s like the boulevard has a heart, and it pushes people down its length, all night, giving them a moment to stop, and then picking right back up again to carry them onwards. 

“And they’re all the same, those people.  They come to Vegas, they’re gonna gamble a couple hundred, but they start hoping for it, for that wish.  They start thinking they could really win.  And those slot machines, Cas!  They’re magnets for the idiots.  These machines, the old ones, at least, you feed them bribes and then they just _go,_ waving at you with little arms, like they’re mocking you.  And that, Cas, that is where the casinos make their coin. 

“Out there, on the floor, that’s living.  It’s a game, a game every night for survival.  It’s taking that chance, knowing you could be a split second from wild success or utter failure.  It’s playing the other guy, it’s knowing that you control your future, your destiny, if only for the turn of a poker hand.  And this feeling, Cas, it’s what feeds this city.  I guess, to some extent, it’s what feeds me.”

Dean paused and turned to look at Cas, full on, his green eyes blazing in the afternoon sun, sparkling with the reflection of the fountains.  “Did your friends ever contact you?”

Cas looked down at his phone.  “No,” he said simply, barely glancing at the screen.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear from his friends, not anymore.

“You know,” Dean said slowly, cautiously, “you could come with me tonight.  I’ll show you the city; I got an arrangement for a game tonight.  I could go at it alone, like I always do, but…” he hesitated, blinked once, and finished his sentence, “I’d rather have you.”

Cas took one look down at his brand new phone, raised his arm, and threw it without abandon into the Bellagio fountains. 

Dean stared after it for a moment in apparent horror, and then burst out laughing.  Cas was confused; he didn’t think he had done anything wrong.  He hadn’t misheard Dean, had he?

“Cas, you are one crazy son of a bitch,” Dean said, leaning heavily on the railing.  “But come on, then,” he said, walking north along the sidewalk.  “We have a show to catch.”


	4. A Move

Dean took him to see Cirque. 

He played at the Mirage quite a bit; it was up the street a ways, but the walk was not unpleasant.  He had two comps for the show – he had comps all over the strip from successful gambling, placing large bets, winning at blackjack and poker.  He’d never thought they would actually come in handy, not until now.

They served dinner with the show, but Dean didn’t pay much attention to the courses.  He was too busy studying Cas’ reactions to the performance, so often bewildered.  Sometimes, though, the man would see or hear something truly incredible, and his face would light up; a smile would stretch across it, almost seeming too wide for his features.  Then he would turn to Dean, wearing that expression, seeming to say, _Look, Dean, look at how perfect that was.  Share this with me._ And Dean would grin back, because he’d never before seen anything as beautiful in his entire life as Cas’ smile.

The music, Beatles, coursed through the air on sound waves that seemed nearly charged with tension.  Perhaps it was Dean’s imagination, but Cas seemed interested in him, too – after all, he had thrown his phone into the Bellagio fountain, committing wholeheartedly to a night with Dean.  He had tried to be subtle, with the caviar (god, he hated caviar, but it was expensive and that was a sign of something, right?  It had been so long since he’d treated anyone); the suit and the show were taking things to a whole new level entirely.  There was no way Cas couldn’t know by now, right?

_Calm the fuck down, Dean_ , he told himself.  _Just because you’re interested in him doesn’t mean you have to act like an idiot. Chill._

As the show was winding down to its finale, Dean watched Cas intently, trying to remember the last time he had shown more than a passing interest in someone.  He remembered his high school years, and then the first year of college, before he had dropped out – he had been with a girl for a while, hadn’t he?  Maybe a month or two, he thought.  He hadn’t had much chance for romance, between casinos and poker and blackjack tables and the scourge of the gambling underworld.  One night stands, sure.  He wasn’t out of practice, with women, at least.  There were so many good-looking girls in Vegas, desperate to make a buck, that Dean couldn’t help but pick up a few on the side.

The lights brightened again, and Dean turned away from Cas hurriedly, afraid of being caught staring. 

“That was amazing!” Cas enthused, clapping for the performers along with the rest of the audience.  Dean reluctantly applauded alongside him.  “I mean, did you see that one move –“

Dean wasn’t listening – he couldn’t help it.  He was too focused on Cas’ body to pay any attention to the his voice.  The man stood in a fluid motion, swinging his coat on over his powerful shoulders, straightening his tie before turning to face Dean with that ridiculous smile on his face.  Dean couldn’t think properly; heat settled into his belly as he thought of touching those shoulders, kissing and sucking on that neck –

“Yeah, I know, right?” Dean said, a half second too late, in response to Cas’ rant about the performers.  Cas’ brow furrowed, but he didn’t make any comment about Dean’s delayed response, about how his eyes lingered just a little bit too long over Cas’ suit, chest, coat.

Dean cleared his throat hurriedly, and they headed towards the main casino floor.  Dean had treated Cas; now it was time to have a little fun. 

“Drink?” he asked, veering off towards one of the many bars that could be found in the Mirage Hotel and Casino.  Cas’ eyes were already dull – not only from the drinks at the Petrossian, but from the few that had been served at dinner.  Cas didn’t refuse, however, so Dean led them to the bar and ordered a couple glasses of scotch. 

“So what do you do for fun?” Dean asked warily.  “Got a girl back at home?” He hadn’t considered the possibility that Cas was dating someone, but now that he had firmly established his own attraction, he thought it best to make sure before proceeding any further in his pursuit.

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Cas said, fumbling almost nervously with his coat sleeves.  Dean watched Cas’ hands as they twisted a bit, obviously trying to keep his mind off something. 

He looked back up to find Cas staring at him again, staring right into his eyes, the other man’s that almost alarming shade of blue.  Dean couldn’t look away from it; they were the color of the ocean after a storm, of a lake in the mountains, of the blue just before twilight, when the sky was ablaze with color and the heavens were tinged with just the faintest hint of indigo.  That blue was the color that rested on the horizon, close to stepping off the edge of the world, vanishing from the light, being swallowed whole by the darkness of the night.  The heat that had disappeared not a few minutes before returned with a vengeance and Dean looked away, blushing and embarrassed at his growing erection.  He tried to think of something – _anything_ – that wasn’t simply a turn-on. 

“You ever played blackjack before?” Dean asked, their glasses arriving as if on cue from the bartender.

“I’ve never been to a casino before in my life,” Cas said, looking away as well, apparently embarrassed that Dean had caught him staring.  For all the liquor he had ingested in the past few hours, his voice did not betray a drop.  “One of the many reasons, actually, why I was so reluctant to come to Vegas.  I usually don’t see eye-to-eye with all of this,” he said, hand gesturing in a broad, sweeping motion. 

“What the hell d’you do for fun, then?” Dean asked, hardly believing his ears.  This guy was a straight up _angel_ – his looks, his demeanor, and his reluctance to engage in gambling – in _anything_ Vegas.  Maybe Cas would be hard to break – but Dean knew what to do to wear down a man’s will, and he would get to Cas, in the end. 

“I work a lot,” Cas said, stilted, avoiding the question. 

“Come on, work with me here!” Dean laughed.  “What line of work are you in?”

“I’m a doctor,” Cas said, and his expression relaxed a bit; Dean believed him, because he was comfortable with the subject.

“So what, like, a kid doctor or a surgery doctor, or…?” Dean pressed eagerly, finally having found a foothold in the conversation. 

“I’m a neurosurgeon,” Cas said, blue eyes flicking back up to Dean’s, causing a familiar swooping sensation in Dean’s stomach.  “It’s… fairly complex stuff, heavy on the hours.  There isn’t much time for a life outside work.  I spend a lot of time at the hospital.”

“Yeah, I watched “Grey’s Anatomy,”” Dean said, nodding knowingly.  Cas’ mouth twitched up at the corner in an almost pitying smile, but Dean ignored it. 

“So, then, are you like the… what do they call him… Dr. Sexy?  Of the hospital?” Dean said it jokingly, but his heart was fluttering a bit fast for comfort.  It was an advance; the only question was how Cas would respond.

“I think you mean McDreamy,” Cas said, shaking his head and chuckling.  “And no, the dynamics aren’t quite like television dramas make them out to be.”

Dean laughed easily, suddenly confident.  Cas hadn’t shied away, he hadn’t run; he was open.  He was attainable. 

Time to move. 

“You never actually answered my question,” Dean said, cocking one eyebrow at Cas.  “You ever played cards?”

“No,” the other man replied, swirling his scotch in his glass.  Dean signaled for two more. 

“Dice?”

“No, of course not,” Cas said, flushing a little red.

“Well, come on then,” Dean said as their glasses arrived.  “Why are we still standing here talking?” Picking up his drink, he gently grasped Cas’ shoulder, wrenching him away from the security of the counter.

Dean led him over to a craps table, where roughly ten people milled around, laughing and already drunk.  Dean dug a few bills out of his pocket and laid them down on the table; he received chips almost instantly from the base dealer. 

“So, how do you play?” Cas asked, eyes gleaming with unbridled curiosity as he stared at the dice being flung across the table. 

“Well,” Dean said, gesturing towards a young man who was holding his hand up to his girl; she blew on the dice for luck before he threw them.  “You got a shooter, he’s the one with the dice.  He’s gotta bet on the “pass” or “don’t pass” line.  You bet on the outcome of a round, you see,” he added as a collective groan went up from the man and the people surrounding him. 

“Each round has two phases,” he continued, “and the first one is the come-out.  If the shooter rolls a 2, 3, or 12, they crap out, and the pass line loses.  A 7 or 11 will get the pass line a win.  If he rolls a 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, or 10, the point is set, and he’s gotta roll that number again before he rolls a seven, or else the pass line loses.”

“So it’s chance?” Cas said, looking at the felt-topped table skeptically.

“It’s _fun_ ,” Dean said, and turned away from Cas to find himself being offered five dice.  He laid down a bet on the pass line – it didn’t matter how much it was for – and chose two dice without care.  He held them up to Cas.

The man stared at him with obviously bewildered blue eyes.  “What do you want me to do with these?”

“Blow on them,” Dean laughed, amused at Cas’ expression.  “For luck.”

Cas’ brow furrowed, little creases popping up all over his forehead, and Dean thought it was about the sexiest thing he’d ever seen as Cas leaned forward and blew gently on the dice.

Turning back towards the table, Dean rolled the dice a couple of times in his fist, and sent them flying.

The dice bounced off the other end of the table and settled on a six and a two.  “Easy eight,” the stickman called, and the dice were returned to Dean. 

“All right, Cas,” Dean said, turning towards him, holding out the dice again. “I think I’m feeling it, how ‘bout you?”

Cas smiled that ridiculously big grin again, and responded by blowing once again on Dean’s hand. 

“Damn straight,” Dean laughed, and threw.    
“Square pair!” the stickman called, and Dean turned to Cas and clasped his shoulder roughly, the action sending shivers down his spine. 

“Did we win?” Cas asked as the boxman pushed chips towards them. 

“Oh, yeah!” Dean said, stepping away from the table to make room for Cas.  “All thanks to you, of course – and I think you deserve the next roll, don’t you?”

Cas stared back at Dean with semi-terrified eyes, still clearly taken aback by the whole spectacle of the casino. 

“Here,” Dean said, laying a bet out on the pass line.  “All you gotta do is roll.” 

The others made their bets, and Dean watched as Cas carefully chose two dice and held them up for Dean.  Dean grabbed his wrist tightly, brought it close to his mouth, and blew so softly, it couldn’t have felt like more than a tickle against Cas’ skin.  He noticed the other man’s pupils dilate, his pulse quicken rapidly, and then Cas had pulled away and was throwing the dice.

“Seven, front line winner, take the don’ts!”

The look of excitement on Cas’ face was enough to make Dean’s night right there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took ages, I had to learn all about craps! I should be able to post more next week :)


	5. Brennan

The night flew by, Cas thought, but he hadn’t a watch, and his phone was resting at the bottom of the Bellagio fountains.  He kept looking around the casino, trying to find a clock, but all his eyes were met with were security cameras, the interested gazes of women, and the warm glow of the casino lights.  There were no windows, and he felt himself slipping into a casual, easy rhythm, traveling to new tables, learning to play new games: roulette, blackjack, even poker.  Dean seemed to have a never-ending tab open with the bar, and Cas was beginning to feel more than a little buzzed, but he found that, if he was honest with himself, he really didn’t care.  It was the most fun he had ever had, and the fact that he was enjoying the experience with Dean just made it that much better.

And Lord, was Dean ever a sight.  His cheeks flushed ever so slightly, pulling back whiskey, his throat bobbing up and down as he swallowed, a bit of sweat glistening at his temples due to the heavy fabric of his suit.  His face was lit with a sort of calm excitement, his eyes alive, his expression often stoic, controlled: the expression of a poker player. 

Cas had lost track of how much they had won.  The men at the tables merely nodded to Dean when he was ready to move on, and Cas had no idea what they did with the winnings, but it was clear Dean came here quite often; he knew everyone, and always tipped well. 

After finishing another round of craps, Dean gently took hold of Cas’ elbow and led him away from the table, up towards the counter.  Cas felt a rush of heat settle into his belly at the touch, and for the hundredth time that night, he wondered what it would be like to kiss this man, feel his lips underneath his own, their whiskey-laced breath mingling together –

“Hold up just a sec, Cas,” Dean said, smiling broadly at him and approaching the counter.  There was a pretty woman handling the transactions, but he was not flirting with her, not even looking at the impressive cleavage she was sporting.  Cas noted how her brown hair flowed over her shoulders, straight and sleek and shiny, her pump lips painted with red lipstick, her eyes a beautiful shade of chocolate brown.  He knew he should feel something towards women like that, but right now, it he only had eyes for Dean. 

Dean glanced back over at him and smiled again, just a slight twist of his mouth, but it was enough to make that heat return, to make Cas shiver.  When Dean had finished with the cashier, he returned to Cas’ side and laid his hand softly on the small of Cas’ back, steering him out of the maze that was the Mirage game room. 

“Where are we going now, Dean?” Cas asked, trying to ensure that he was indeed walking in a straight line.  Suddenly, in proper lighting, all that booze didn’t seem like the best idea. 

“We’re going back to the Bellagio,” Dean said, grinning over at Cas.  Cas’ face fell for half a second before he carefully reconstructed his stoic gaze; of course that was it, what else was there to see in Vegas?  Perhaps, however, there would be another invitation when they returned to the hotel –

But Dean had noticed the expression on Castiel’s face, and he laughed that long, easy laugh again, the one that seemed to kind of bubble out of his chest effortlessly, and made him seem five years younger.  “Chill out, Cas,” Dean said, and the way he said his name – it felt safe, safe in his mouth, like it belonged there.  “I told you I had a game tonight, didn’t I?  You wanna see some _real_ poker?”

“Sure,” Cas said as they stepped out into the desert air.  The sky had darkened during their time in the casino, and the stars were out over the rocky plains of Vegas.  There were lights everywhere, cars busing people from stop to stop along the boulevard, tourists in semi-casual dress taking pictures for their scrapbooks.  The city was thrumming with energy, life, and sin.  Castiel, however, could not have cared less about the passerby that were staring at the two men with curious glances.  Tonight, all he knew was Dean. 

Dean was talking to the man at the door, and within a few minutes, a town car had pulled up along the drive, clearly meant for them. 

“I would not have minded walking,” Cas said, for the thousandth time feeling guilty about the sheer volume of money Dean was spending. 

“Don’t sweat it,” Dean said, waving the bellhop off and opening the door for Cas.  Flustered, he slid into the car, Dean close behind. 

“Bellagio, please,” Dean said, leaning back in the seat and extending his legs as far as they could go. His arm crept onto the top of the seat, hand sliding behind Cas’ head.  It was incredibly distracting.  “So, Cas, I’m guessing this will be your first time you’ve seen high-stakes poker,” Dean said, glancing sideways so that their eyes met. 

Cas had been about to reply, but Dean didn’t break eye contact, and he felt every thought he had formulated fly right out of his head.  He was again struck by Dean’s eyes, by that perfect, beautiful shade of green, how the pupils were blown wide with something akin to –

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Cas said, turning away and laughing a bit to cover up the gaping hole in conversation.  “Yes, certainly my first time seeing high-stakes poker.  What am I expected to do?”

“You’ll mainly serve as moral support,” Dean said, straightening his cufflinks nervously.  “I’m playing a guy who’s kind of a big deal tonight.  His name’s Brennan.  He sort of… runs the strip.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Cas said, brow furrowed slightly. 

“Well, he owns a few casinos here,” Dean said, trying his best to act casual, but Cas noticed how Dean’s right hand was twitching slightly at its place on top of his knee.  Nervous.  Cas wondered why.

“Quite a bit of money – and quite a bit of power,” Dean continued, smiling, but it was slightly strained.  Suddenly, Cas wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch Dean’s cheek, but he settled with putting his hand on the other man’s shoulder instead.  Less direct.  As soon as his hand made contact with Dean’s coat, he felt that same sort of electricity crackle beneath his skin, and it was odd – it felt as if his hand belonged there.  _Property of Castiel Novak._

“You’re going to do great,” he said with an encouraging smile.  Dean returned it, and Cas saw his body relax under his touch. 

“Damn straight,” Dean muttered, as the car pulled up to the curb.  Dean opened the door for him again, and they were back inside the Bellagio, but headed in a different direction this time. 

The room they eventually entered was darker, even more dimly lit than the main game floor.  The upholstery was plush, in the colors the hotel seemed to prefer, creams and burgundies.  The tables, tan with dark brown trimming, were surrounded by chairs that bore a hideous vertical striped design.  There were only two tables in the entire room, and a game was already active at one of them.  Eight men stared intently at their cards as they laid bets, glancing around furtively to see if anyone would give away a tell.   
Dean turned to Cas and handed him a hundred dollar bill.  “Could you go get us some drinks? Just tell him to put them onto my account, give this to the bartender.”   
Cas nodded and took the bill from Dean’s hand. 

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said, smiling, and he clasped Cas’ shoulder for a moment before he started to move away, letting his hand travel all the way down Cas’ arm as he did so. 

Cas was frozen in place for a couple seconds before he was able to move again, taking one last glance back at Dean, who was talking to a few other men, before moving off to get the drinks.  He got whiskey again, and as he took a sip, he was surprised to find how familiar the brown liquor had become to him over the course of the past few hours.  He wasn’t a drinking man, but he was starting to like the taste of it. 

When he reentered the room, Dean seized him and pulled him into his side, one arm wrapped around Cas’ waist.  Cas almost dropped Dean’s drink in alarm.  There was no space left in between the two of them; it was intimate in a way he wasn’t used to, and his heartbeat accelerated, heat pooling rapidly somewhere below his stomach. 

“Gentlemen,” Dean said, taking his drink from Cas’ shaking fingers, “this is Castiel.  Poor bastard got left behind by his friends, thought I’d show him a night on the town.”  With that, he released Cas’ waist, but kept close enough that Cas could still feel the heat emanating off his body.  A shiver ran up his spine, and he worked to slow his breathing, his pulse rate, back down to normal.  Dean glanced at him sidelong, and he _knew_.  Dean had been playing him the entire time – and Cas knew that the feeling he had for Dean was mutual.  Of course it was.  He restrained himself, however, because he had a feeling that this was company where affection between two men would not be appreciated.  Instead, he retreated to a small sofa as Dean and the other men seated themselves at the table. 

He was so engrossed in his drink and a study of Dean’s profile that he almost didn’t notice the soft rustle of clothing as someone sat down beside him.  His eyes took her in, widening slightly at the sight before him. 

A woman sat next to him, her skin tan from the desert sun, her hair a deep brown, the color of dark chocolate, falling in loose curls around her shoulders.  Her face was young, full of life, but she looked like she could be as old as 32, as young as 25.  Her lips were well-formed, coated in a layer of lipstick that perfectly matched her blood-red dress.  Her perfectly manicured hand held a glass of champagne, and her eyes sparkled with intelligence, eyelashes fluttering softly. 

Cas waited for that familiar warmth, for his breath to hitch and his heart to begin beating faster with arousal.  Surprisingly, it did not come, and he instead found himself looking back towards Dean, watching with fascination as the man received his cards. 

He was staring intently at another man across the table; Brennan, Cas thought with sudden certainty.  The man was probably close to fifty, his dark brown hair greying by his temples, a goatee framing his small, thin mouth.  His face was lined from heavy smoking, but his eyes were young, blue and gleaming with a malevolence Cas had rarely seen.  Two men in suits stood about ten feet behind him, their stances protective, and Cas knew that they were bodyguards.  Did they anticipate trouble?  Perhaps. 

“So who are you here with?” the woman said to Cas in a hushed tone, determined to not be ignored.

“Uh,” Cas said, turning towards her quickly and causing his neck to crack.  “Oh, I’m friends with Dean Smith.”

She grinned and reclined against the sofa, apparently happy to have Cas’ attention fixed on her.  “My name’s Ruby,” she said, and Cas couldn’t help but suspect she was using a fake name.  He didn’t hold it against her – she looked quite expensive.  She held out her hand, which he shook reluctantly. 

“Castiel,” he said, letting go rather quickly.  Her hand was eerily cold.  “Who are you here with?”

“Brennan, of course,” she said, casting an admiring smile in the other man’s direction.  The man caught her eye and smiled back, his teeth unnaturally white for the amount that he must smoke.  Cas shuddered at the exchange. 

She inched closer to him on the couch, and Cas had the unsettling feeling that she was working off of some sort of strategy, although he couldn’t possibly imagine what it was. 

“Nice suit,” she whispered, her eyes flicking downwards as her fingers lightly traced his leg.  Cas remained very still, hoping that if he didn’t move she would pull away.  She didn’t; instead, she let her hand trail all the way up Cas’ arm, coming to rest on his shoulder, where she pinched a bit of his suit with two fingers.  They had shed their coats at the door, but Cas felt strangely naked without his trench coat.  Still, he worked to not move as she examined his body with calculating interest. 

“So tell me, Cas,” she said quietly, and Cas noticed how she didn’t use his full name, although he had introduced himself as such, “when did you meet Dean?”

“Just earlier tonight,” Cas said, suddenly finding it hard to concentrate on the conversation.  Her hand was still on his shoulder, and the way she was leaning forward exposed an incredible amount of cleavage.  It made him feel rather sick. 

“Did you get left behind by the party, sweetheart?” she asked, eyes sliding over his, her voice coy and seductive. 

“Not exactly,” Cas said in a voice that indicated the conversation was over.  Ruby had other ideas. 

“Can’t say I blame you,” she said, leaning in even closer, so that her lips were nearly touching his ear.  “I mean, he _is_ quite handsome.”

Cas heard a rustle up at the table and turned his attention away from his hands, tightly entwined in his lap, back to Dean, who looked as stoic as ever.  Cas did notice, however, that his mouth was twisted up just slightly on the side – success, then?  One of the other men stood up from the table, clearly disgruntled, and swept out of the room, a woman in a dark blue dress trailing behind him. 

Cas watched them go, and turned back to Dean, who winked at him, green eyes shining, and turned back to the table.  Cas couldn’t help but smile; Dean was doing well, and it made him happy.  He glanced towards Brennan, who didn’t look as if he had moved an inch. 

Suddenly, he remembered that Ruby had asked him a question.  “I apologize, you were saying…?”

She scowled ever so slightly, and Cas knew that she had finally realized he could not be less interested. 

“I was saying that your boyfriend is quite a stunner,” she said, and continued to study Dean’s face intently. 

Again, Cas wondered what she was playing at, working first to distract him, and then then –

Oh. Of course.  She was working on Dean’s tell.  There were a number of things she could see that Brennan could not: the movements of his legs, for example, or a finger twitching against his pants that would give away a bluff.  He realized the genius behind the strategy; Dean would keep his face carefully controlled, presumably, so she was of critical importance. 

Was he supposed to be doing the same thing with Brennan?  The man who had cleared out had left Cas with a relatively good view of Brennan’s face, and he could see the man’s shiny Italian leather shoes resting on the floor.  Determined to help Dean, he studied the older man intently, watching his curiously bright blue eyes as they darted down to his cards and back towards his chips and plaques. 

He knew Dean had placed a bet, but was not paying enough attention to know how much it was for or how many cards already lay on the table.  Had the river been dealt?  He wasn’t sure.  He heard Ruby sigh with impatience next to him, and he knew she must not be getting anything out of Dean.  Cas wouldn’t have expected anything less. 

Brennan’s left eye twitched ever so slightly as he called Dean’s bet, setting forward one shiny plaque.  The cards were shown; Dean must have had a good hand – better than Brennan’s, anyways – because the plaque was pushed in his direction. 

Three of the other men stood and left the table, clearly having lost too much money already at such a highs-stakes game.  That just left four: two young men, practically boys, clearly playing from their father’s coffers, and obviously intoxicated beyond function.  Brennan stood up and posed a question to the table, but Cas wasn’t listening; his gaze was right back on Dean, studying his face in profile, the way his nose sloped down to a perfect point, how his lips were just the right size. 

Dean stood up and crossed the small floor, gazing down at Ruby with nothing but contempt.  “Nice to see you, again, Ruby,” he said in a tight voice, his lips barely moving.

“And you,” she said in the same manner, standing and moving over towards Brennan, who appeared to be ordering a drink. 

“What do you think?” Dean said, turning back to Cas, that same excitement that had been absent on his face now blindingly apparent.  “He’s a good player; I can’t seem to get a read on him, but hell, it’s a challenge.”

“Actually, I might have something,” Cas said, remembering how Brennan’s eye had twitched during the last round.  He told Dean what he had seen, and when he’d finished, Dean was staring at him in apparent amazement.

“Dammit, Cas, I can’t believe I missed that!” he said quietly.  “I must’ve been too busy making sure she wasn’t bothering you,” he said, nodding towards Ruby. 

“Oh, I’m fine,” Cas assured him, reaching out a hand and brushing it casually down the other man’s arm.  They both shivered at the touch.  “Just take his money, okay?”

“You got it, Cas,” he said, and turned away, walking back to the table and taking his seat again.  The two boys had never returned from the bar after the short break.  It was just Brennan and Dean. 

Cas made sure to stand well back from the table, against the wall, and watched the scene unfold.  Ruby came to stand beside him, her face impassive, any previous sign of friendliness gone.

They laid bets carefully, with much thought and deliberation, Cas noticed.  Brennan certainly took longer, and by the time the river was dealt, his eyes were moving extremely slowly over the tabletop, sliding back up to Dean’s in an attempt to catch him in a bluff.  Dean gazed back at him stoically, waiting for the older man to make his bet. 

Brennan’s eyes moved back down to his cards, and – _there –_ his left eye twitched.  As he gently pushed two plaques forward for the dealer to take.  Dean leaned back, just a little bit, and called the bet with confidence. 

They exposed their cards – Dean had won.  But really, there had never been a doubt in Cas’ mind that he wouldn’t _._

Dean stood up and shook Brennan’s hand, and Cas inched closer to hear what they were saying.

“Excellent playing,” Brennan said, wearing that same tight-lipped smile Dean had displayed earlier while talking to Ruby.  The woman was now hanging off of Brennan’s arm, her face distant and pale. 

“And yourself,” Dean said courteously.  “You’ll want to watch that tell though,” he said, and Cas flinched.  He knew just as well as Dean that he shouldn’t be mocking Brennan.  The man had too much power and there were too many people around.  If Brennan was malicious enough, Dean could be made out as an example. 

All of the warmth left Brennan’s face, leaving it cold as ice.  His eyes shone like glaciers in a skull that suddenly appeared emaciated, and Dean knew as well as Cas that he had gone too far.  He let go of Brennan’s hand quickly and turned to Cas, taking his arm and steering him out of the room.  Cas had just enough wit to look behind him, and he noticed that they were being followed.

Followed by none other than Brennan’s two bodyguards.


	6. Sin City

Sweat dripped slowly down the back of Dean’s neck as he towed Cas along behind him.  Dean felt the other man’s body shift slightly, heard a slight gasp of alarm, and turned to look behind him as well: perfect, Brennan’s bodyguards were following them.  Shit.  That was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. 

Dean weaved quickly through the tables on the gaming floor, usually so welcoming, and now seeming strangely like a labyrinth.  The utter lack of windows made it difficult to fully comprehend where they were headed, and he felt his head swim a bit – odd, he thought, he hadn’t had that much to drink.  Well, not much for him, at least.  It took a damn good bit of liquor to get Dean Winchester wasted. 

As the lights started to shift, however, he began to wonder if it wasn’t something else.  Had he been paying attention to his drink?  He _had_ left it at the table, but just for that brief rest when he went to talk to Cas – nobody could have –

Ruby could have.  Dean had known it would only be a matter of time before she got him back for that stunt he pulled, but he didn’t think it would be anything like this.  No, this was _dangerous._  

Dean glanced backwards again, his hand still forming an iron-clad grip against Cas’ bicep.  The men weren’t too big, and he might be able to take them, if only _the lights weren’t doing goddamn cartwheels_ –

“Dean?  Where are we going?” Cas asked, obviously panicked. 

Dean worked to keep his own fears out of his voice and replied, “Let’s just get outside, Cas.”

He led them on a complicated maneuver through the slot machines, and then they were at an exit door, heavy and perfectly blended with the wall.  They were through, into a small street, devoid of cars in the black, thrumming Vegas night. 

“Where are we?” Cas asked, leaning against the side of the building, looking back towards the main strip. 

“Maybe a delivery driveway?” Dean suggested, inspecting the door to see if there was any way he could disable the handle on it.  Maybe if he blew it off –

“Problem, boys?” a voice drawled from about thirty yards away.  Dean felt a sense of dread unfurling in his stomach, because he knew that voice. 

Brennan was strolling up the drive, coat billowing in the slight desert wind, old-fashioned fedora pulled down low over those devilishly keen eyes.  His hands were tucked in his pockets, and Dean could barely make out the edges of that damn goatee through the dark.  An intense hatred for the man filled his body. He hated Brennan for ruining his night with Cas, for sending bodyguards after him, presumably to make an example of him.  Most of all, however, Dean hated himself for dragging Cas into this whole thing.  He’d just wanted to show the poor guy a good time, and instead, he might be witnessing a murder. 

Dean straightened his tie nervously, glancing back towards Cas with a look that he thought said, _stay out of this_.  Cas took a step forward, planting himself firmly next to Dean.  He rolled his eyes and turned back to Brennan. 

“Nothing to worry about, Brennan,” he said in the lazy drawl he used around women, always with the intention of lulling them into a sense of calm. 

“Doesn’t seem that way to me,” Brennan said, only about twenty feet away.  Dean felt warm air hit his back, and noticed that the bodyguards had finally found their way out of the casino and were blocking the door, muscles straining against their shirts. 

Dean shook his head slightly to try and dispel the dizzy feeling, but he had no luck.  “What’d you put in my drink, Brennan?” he asked, speech slurring a bit, blinking furiously. 

“Oh, you can just call me Al,” Brennan said, a grotesque smile turning up at the corner of his mouth.  “My apologies, you haven’t met my friends yet!  The tall one is Berith, the blonde one, Gressil.  Now that we’re all introduced, I think it’s about time you say hello,” Brennan continued, the smile extending to a disturbingly contorted smirk. 

“I’d rather not, Al,” Dean said, attempting his brave swagger.  It didn’t come.  His voice was too shaky from whatever drug Ruby had used, hands unsteady and head spinning. 

“I insist,” Brennan said through gritted teeth, and Dean felt a massive fist collide with his jaw. 

He staggered, but managed to hold his ground, raising his fists in front of him as a protective shield. 

“So this’s how‘s gonna be, Al?” Dean called out, ducking underneath another swing from Gressil.  He retaliated with a firm kick to the man’s stomach, but it appeared to have no effect.  “You gonna kill me?” Duck, spin, throw the left hook, contact – and _damn_ , did that hurt –

“Of course not, Dean Winchester, I’m just going to beat you so bloody that no woman will be able to recognize you,” Brennan said, clearly enjoying the show.  Dean didn’t wonder how the man knew his true name, too preoccupied in dodging blows from the two guards. 

He was able to catch Berith on the wrist, throwing him to the ground, before Gressil’s hand wrapped around his waist.  The other man’s hips bent forward and Dean looked at the pavement as his feet were suddenly lifted off the pavement – he went hurtling towards the ground below, throwing out his arm to catch most of the impact.  Ju-jitsu training did have its advantages. 

“Run, Cas!” he yelled, but the man in the trench coat just continued to stand and stare as Dean was beaten in front of him.  Berith’s fist made contact with his jaw a second time, and stars flashed before his eyes, worsening the effect of the drugs. 

He turned away from the attacks, suddenly fixated on getting Cas out of danger, barring any cost to his own safety. 

“Run!” he said, and a foot made contact with his exposed back, throwing him forward several feet until he lay in a heap at Brennan’s shiny leather shoes.  The older man turned Dean on his back, and he could see the malice in Brennan’s eyes, glowing with the sight of Dean’s torture. 

“What, worried for your boyfriend?” he asked, sneering, as Gressil appeared out of nowhere and gripped Dean’s suit tight in his fist.  Hit after hit was dealt into his jaw, until he could feel his mouth bleeding; he was sure his lip was split open, there would be bruises on his cheek for days, but at least Cas had gotten away –

Suddenly, the fist was gone – Dean’s vision was dissolving, fading rapidly into black, but he saw Brennan’s smirk disappear.  Then the fedora had vanished, the fists were absent, and someone was cupping the side of his face – he could not see his rescuer – his vision was nearly white with pain and drugs and booze –

And then Dean was being lifted up, carried, flown, in the wings of an angel, away from the fight, away to safety, into the light.   

*

Dean was vaguely aware of shapes moving around him, the sensation of being supported in another’s arms, the floating feeling as he flew through the familiar lights of the Bellagio, underneath the blown glass sculpture, through the lobby and into an elevator, and then up, up, up, they went, music playing in the background, a perfect accompaniment to the symphony that he heard as he laid in his angel’s arms. 

Grays and blues and lights – he could see them dimly as the angel carried him into a room and laid him gently on a bed, made from silk and air and grace. 

There was a hand, gently ministering to his wounds, soft, careful, with a surgeon’s deft skill.  Dean ran his tongue up to touch his lip; it was not swollen; he had been incredibly lucky. 

“Shhh, sit still,” he heard above him in a voice that sounded familiar.  Where had he heard it before?  Surely –

“Don’t move,” it whispered, and he immediately became a statue.  As the hand moved down, however, towards his ribcage and onto his stomach, he felt a familiar heat replace the pain.  Slowly Dean was waking up – his vision becoming sharper, his tongue losing the leaden feeling it possessed, and he started to realize –

Cas. 

It was Cas administering to him, Cas who was brushing his fingers all across Dean’s overly sensitive body, Cas who was pushing against his forehead with a damp, cool cloth.  It was Cas breathing above him, Castiel, the neurosurgeon with the weird name, the one who had dropped unexpectedly into Dean’s life, and who would leave Dean a changed man. 

And as Dean’s vision cleared, he began to notice the concern layered over Cas’ face, thick as pitch running through the eighth circle of hell.  Cas looked just about like he’d been through the gates of hell himself.

“Cas,” he choked out, reaching to enclose the older man’s hand with his own.  Cas’ blue eyes stretched in alarm, and he worked to lull Dean back into the sense of security he had so carefully constructed. 

“Shh, Dean, it’s okay, I’m here,” he said, gripping Dean’s hand with one of his, soothing his forehead with the other, brushing a few tendrils of hair away. 

“What’d you do?” Dean said, speech slurring just a bit, the effects of the drug quickly wearing off.  “How’d you get them to go away?”

“I have some fighting experience, too,” Cas said, smiling.  “I was a soldier for a while, before I went to college to become a surgeon.  Those were some nice moves back there, Dean, but it seems like someone got to your drink.”

“Damn straight they did,” Dean said, sitting up and taking in his surroundings for the first time.  They were in one of the Bellagio suites, overlooking the strip with long, curved windows.  The bedding and décor was themed gray and blue, and there was a first aid kit open on the bedside table next to him.  Dean looked back at the windows, and the view almost took his breath away. 

When Dean stood, Cas stuttered a bit and motioned for him to sit back down, but Dean ignored him.  “I’ll be fine, Cas,” he said, and advanced on the windows, the ones that looked down on the city.

It was late at night, certainly, but Vegas was thriving.  Cars streamed in a river up and down the boulevard, past casinos where people were gambling their last penny on a desert dream, desperate to win.  Lights blared and flashed advertisements to passerby, and the fountains played spectacularly in front of everything – up and down they went, in an eternal dance, one where there could be no victor.  And the tourists, the palm trees, the sand and the rock of the desert – and the moon!  Waxing gibbous and waiting there, above the mountains, reminiscing on its own legends.  Dean felt a hand touch his side, tentatively. 

He turned to see Cas, still fully clothed, face agape with the city’s beauty – _his_ city’s beauty, Dean thought – and Cas smiled.  That smile, Dean thought, Cas must have known what it did to him, because suddenly he was leaning in, and their lips were meeting, and –

Cas breathed, hot against Dean, and the younger man opened his lips.  Cas invaded his mouth, swirling his clever tongue across Dean’s teeth, ducking back into the corners, exploring and plundering, and then as Cas pulled back, he bit lightly on Dean’s lower lip.  Dean felt some sort of explosion in his stomach, heat pouring downwards, and he was surprised he had any blood left in his head. 

Dean did the only thing he could think of, and walked back towards the bed, fingers running underneath Cas’s suit, tugging up on his dress shirt, desperate to touch bare skin, to feel the sensation of Cas’ body against his own.

Suddenly, Dean found himself walking backwards, and realized that Cas must have switched their positions.  But then his knees hit the bed, and Cas was devouring his neck, his collarbone, any point that he could reach with Dean’s shirt still on –

So Dean ripped it off, tearing a couple of buttons off in the process, but those could be replaced.  Cas did the same, removing his trench coat carefully, and then his suit and shirt with reckless abandon.  He settled over Dean, capturing his mouth in another kiss and then slowly working his way down Dean’s one undamaged jawline, pausing on his neck enough to suck a hickey into it.  Dean moaned into the action and grew even harder, jutting his hips upwards in attempt to make contact with Cas.  The other man, however, had arranged himself so that any friction would be impossible to attain, and continued past Dean’s throat down to his chest.  He sucked gently at one nipple, tweaking the other with his long and nimble fingers.  Dean let out a cry of pleasure, unable to help himself.  Cas continued to work his way down until he was at the waistline of Dean’s pants, where he carefully palmed Dean’s erection. 

Dean almost couldn’t take it, the tension between the two of them.  When Cas laid that hand over him, he nearly came right then, just from watching the other man make the motion. 

The way the light from the window framed Cas’ body was positively divine – in fact, a slight burst of light that Dean suspected came from one of the casinos across the street illuminated Cas’ head, such that he looked like he was ringed in light – a goddamn real life angel.  And Dean wanted nothing more than to come for him. 

“Cas, please,” he moaned, fingers trailing down to work at Cas’ buttons, desperate to free the other man’s cock, to taste it, savor it –

“Shh,” Cas hushed him, gently undoing Dean’s pants and easing them off his legs.  Dean was straining against his underwear, his erection huge and growing with the second. 

Working quickly to free Cas from his pants, Dean was met with a sight of unparalleled appeal.  Cas’ cock peeked out from underneath snug-fitting underwear, and Dean pulled them down, allowing the other man’s dick to spring free. 

Quickly, before Cas had time to react, Dean had the older man on his back, his lips trailing down towards Cas’ length.  A single drop of pre-cum welled from the slit, and Dean licked across it, savoring the salty taste, licking every last inch of Cas’s pelvic area before he sucked along the underside of Cas, tracing the thick vein that ran there, allowing his nose to be filled with heavy scent of Cas’ musk. 

Ignoring his cock for a moment, Dean’s lips traveled down to Cas’ balls, taking them into his mouth one at a time and sucking on them gently.

_“Dean – please-”_

The sound of Cas begging was the dirtiest thing Dean could think of, and he became impossibly harder because of it.  Tracing the interior of Cas’ thighs, Dean licked and sucked and nipped, working his way down and then back up towards Cas’ length.  When he finally took it back in his hand, Dean squeezed the base as he worked it with his tongue, circling and dipping and pulling –

How did he get onto his back like that? Dean wondered, for he was suddenly staring at the ceiling, and no longer at the beauty that was Cas, his smooth skin and beautiful dick.  His mouth watered, hungry for another taste, thirsting for Cas to come down his throat -

And then Cas had Dean in his mouth, and he lost all sense of time, place, setting, everything.  All he could think about was Cas, filling him up from the inside, thrusting against him to the rhythm of their heartbeats. 

“Cas, please,” he managed to groan, and Cas took the hint, reaching behind him into his bag and removing a small bottle of lube.  Dean’s angel slicked up his fingers, pressed another chaste kiss against his lips, and gently pushed one knuckle into Dean. 

Dean gasped with pleasure and resisted the nearly overpowering urge to impale himself on Cas’ fingers – but he knew from years of experience that preparation was important if he wished to walk the next day. 

“Yes, Cas, yes – “ Dean cried as Cas moved the first finger all the way inside and inserted another.  The stretch was wonderful, taking the focus of pain off Dean’s face and throwing it somewhere else entirely, somewhere it could be easily examined and replaced with pleasure. 

“Mm, Cas, so hot,” Dean said, pulling the other man down onto his lips, sucking along his bottom lip, opening up and invading Cas’ mouth.  “So fucking hot, I wanna feel you inside me, want you to fill me up.”

A small whimper emerged from Cas’ flushed mouth, and Dean felt Cas’ cock stiffen against his thigh, knew that he must be desperate to come, that they had both been looking towards this all night.  Cas slipped one more finger into Dean, just to be safe, scissoring his fingers.  He then slathered lube all over his own dick, maintaining eye contact with Dean the entire time.

Gripping Dean’s calves, the older man hooked Dean’s legs around his waist and guided his cock slowly into Dean. 

Dean gasped as Cas breached him; the warmth and impossible size of a cock took him by surprise every time.  Cas slid all the way in, hesitating for just a moment, letting Dean adjust.  Dean, however, was growing impatient.  “Just fuck me already, goddamn it, Cas!” he shouted, thrusting his hips towards the other man. 

Cas quickly complied, sliding almost entirely out before slamming back into Dean, whose head promptly crashed into the headboard.  Neither of them could be bothered to care. 

After a few more thrusts a rhythm had been established, and Cas was just reaching forward to take hold of Dean’s cock again when he angled and _there –_

“Fuck, Cas!” Dean cried out as Cas brushed his prostate, pleasure flooding his body, and he almost came right then, but he managed to hold off. 

“Dean,” Cas moaned, and Dean knew that he was close, so he moved Cas’ hand to his cock.

Cas’ motions had become erratic after a few more thrusts and then he brushed Dean’s prostate again and Dean was coming, screaming out Cas’ name, thick ropes of semen coating their chests as his entire body tensed and his vision went white.  He could feel Cas coming to his own release inside of him, the other man’s body shaking with the orgasm and he heard a quiet, “Dean, oh god, Dean.”

Cas slumped down on top of him, sliding off Dean’s chest and pulling out slowly.  They were covered in sweat and blood and semen, and Dean rose to grab a towel with which they could clean off.  When he came back, Cas was staring at him with eyes so deep and blue that Dean feared he would drown in them. 

Carefully, he washed the come off their chests, leaving them warm, dry, and smelling of sex. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Cas said, turning towards the window. 

“Damn straight,” Dean said, post-coital bliss finally taking its hold over him.  He felt Cas pull the comforter over them, and started as he felt Cas’ arms wrap around his body.  He relaxed into the touch and breathed in the scent of Cas, nose pressed against the other man’s neck.  It was clean and musky and sweaty and just so _Cas_.  They breathed in as one, exhaling in a mingled rush of warm air, Cas’ breath ruffling the hair on the top of Dean’s head. 

“Wonder if your friends missed you tonight,” Dean murmured into Cas’ neck, gently licking at the exposed skin. 

“It doesn’t really matter,” Cas whispered back.  “I’ve got all I need right here.”

“Cas,” Dean said, a sudden thought almost jolting him out of his near-catatonic state, “are you leaving tomorrow?”

A pause, a hitch of breath.  It was funny, though, because they both knew what he was going to say.  Dean didn’t even really need to ask the question.

“I think I can extend my stay a little longer, don’t you think?  Seems like there’s still a lot to see.”

And as Dean drifted off to sleep in Castiel’s arms, he recognized that there was so much he could show his man, his protector.  Not just the strip, no, but the country, the states, the world. 

Cars buzzed along on the boulevard, dawn mere hours away on the horizon.  Then, the city would sleep, if only for a while, dealing money behind locked doors before Vegas came alive again.

And when it did, when the tables awakened and the sun slid behind the horizon, throwing the predictable desert landscape into unfamiliar darkness, Cas would be there with him. 

 

_Breathe in._

Sex. Musk, booze, antiseptic and detergent on the sheets.  Night, the dark, the crisp scent of the desert after rain, in the dead of night, cigarette smoke carried on the wind.  And underneath everything, Cas.  Cas – and Dean.

_Breathe out._

Two men in the Cypress suite, limbs entangled, breathing the same air, closed their eyes and drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> my self-given prompt for this fic was the song "Little Bribes" by Death Cab for Cutie. there may be references to the song scattered throughout!


End file.
